There is an official date somewhere for the first day of summer, but the last day of school was when we knew it began really. Now it’s when we leave Austin and arrive in Maine. Last year this meant the end of May, this the middle of June, but it’s no different, Summer only begins when we rent a car in Portland and start crossing off the bridges. It doesn’t matter that I’m brown already, that the water I swam in for the last month in Texas was far warmer than the water I will swim in here next month in the Atlantic, all that counts is the release and then the arrival.


The bones of this house
lay still and cold
and all we leave each year
is also getting old
a thousand books rest
absurd, unread
nor will their spines get broken
before I’m long since dead.


There are families of squirrels
many yet unborn
who live here in the walls
and keep each other warm
while waiting for we three
to leave our food behind
those little pots of poison
blue cheese upon the rind.
There are bats and untold insects
fierce cobwebs and then the mice
the garden full of mud
with its memory full of ice.


There’s no hot water
to shave we boil up kettles
but when all is said and done
I’m in the best of fettles.
Tired, unclean
mostly out of money
circumstances few
would find a morsel funny
but where the heart lies easiest
is the single place to be
and Maine in summertime
is that place for me.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.